


The Adventures of Little Legolas

by ningloreth



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-24
Updated: 2011-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 00:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ningloreth/pseuds/ningloreth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The (mis)adventures of an elfling prince...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Little Prince

The guard standing beside the great double doors shifted uncomfortably.

Lord Astaldo, King Thranduil’s Chief Counsellor for many centuries, noted the movement and paused, his knuckles a mere inch from the wood. “It is _that_ day,” he said, softly.

“Yes, my lord,” replied the guard.

The counsellor should, of course, have reprimanded the soldier for his breach of etiquette, but—

 _CRASH_ —something heavy had just hit the study wall—

And the guard’s expression was one of honest sympathy, not insolence—for Thranduil, so difficult, so prickly in character, had nevertheless a gift for inspiring love in his exasperated people.

“I had better return later,” said Astaldo.

The guard nodded in agreement.

…

The tiny creature tottered along the corridor, cautiously raising each foot high before slowly placing it down, unable to see the floor over the two bows—one of them full-sized—and the quiver he was carrying in his little arms.

“Will you open the door for me, please, Maeglin?”

“I do not think your Adar wishes to be disturbed, just now, your Highness,” said the guard, gently.

“He will not mind, if it is me,” said Legolas. He smiled. “ _Please_ , Maeglin.”

The guard shook his head. _Give him a century or so and no elleth in the Greenwood will be safe_ , he thought. “Promise me that if your Adar tells you to leave, you will come straight back to the door, your Highness,” he said, cautiously.

“I promise!”

Maeglin resisted the temptation to ruffle the little imp’s golden hair. “Perhaps you should leave the bows outside…”

“Oh no! These are for Ada!”

“Bows?”

The elfling nodded vehemently.

 _Valar help me if I ever have a son of my own_ , thought Maeglin. Very quietly, he lifted the latch of the great door and pushed it open. Legolas toddled through the gap, miraculously manoeuvring the full-size bow to avoid knocking its arms as he did so.

Maeglin waited for a moment or two.

But there was no immediate outburst, so he closed the door behind the little prince.

…

Legolas stepped carefully over the candle stand lying just inside the door, and entered his father’s study. “Hello Ada.”

“Not now, Legolas.” The Elvenking was hunched over his desk.

“You are sad, I know,” said the tiny elfling, “but—”

“Legolas! I said not _now_.”

“It is _because_ you are sad that I—”

“I shall not tell you again, Legolas!” Thranduil swung round, giving his tiny son one of his fabled glares.

Undeterred, the elfling carefully laid the bows and quiver on a nearby chair and approached his father. “I am here to cheer you up,” he said, smiling.

“Cheer…” Thranduil shook his head. “Do you know what day it is today?”

The child nodded. “It is the day that I was born on.”

“The day that you…? _Yes_ ,” admitted the Elvenking, softly, “it is the day that you were born on.”

“The day that Nana left us,” said Legolas.

Thranduil sighed, creasing his brows in his effort to control his emotions. “Yes.”

“That is why you need cheering up,” the elfling persisted. He toddled back to the chair, picked up the larger of the two bows and held it out to his father.

“What have you brought that for?”

“So that you can learn to use it. I will teach you, Ada. Master Galdor says that I am already an excellent archer.”

Thranduil raised his hand to hide an unexpected smile. “Does he now? And what makes you think that _I_ need to learn archery?”

“It will make you happy.”

“Hap—? What are you talking about, Legolas?”

“It makes _me_ happy, Ada. More than anything.”

“Archery.”

The child nodded.

“Show me,” said Thranduil. “Put that big bow down and let me see how you draw your own bow.”

With great respect for both weapons, Legolas laid the longbow back on the chair and took up his own quarter-size bow. He walked into the open space before the fireplace. “Stand tall,” he said, drawing himself up to his full three feet nothing, and adopting a voice that sounded suspiciously like a certain bow master’s, “with one foot either side of your shooting line.” He shifted his little hips from side to side to illustrate the point. “Do not lock your knees.” He bounced up and down a few times. “Check that your shoulders are _square_.” He raised the bow to his waist. “Curl your fingers around the bowstring in a deep hook.” He exaggerated the movement of his hand. “Raise your bow arm and your drawing arm together.” With childish grace, he brought his bow into the shooting position. “Draw to your anchor, picturing your target, then let the arrow loose itself…” The bowstring slipped from his little fingers with a twang.

Thranduil stretched out his arms. “Come here, Lasdithen,” he cried, tears running down his normally impassive face, “Come here, my Little Leaf.”

…

“I am sorry Ada, I have only made you sadder,” mumbled Legolas, smothered in his father’s embrace.

The Elvenking said nothing.

But, without releasing his son, he slid down to his knees and, for the first time since the day of his terrible loss, he let the mask fall, and sobbed like an elfling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish  
> Adar … 'father'  
> Ada … 'daddy'  
> Nana … 'mummy'


	2. The King

_In a great hall with pillars hewn out of the living stone sat the Elvenking on a chair of carven wood. On his head was a crown of berries and red leaves, for the autumn was come again. In the spring he wore a crown of woodland flowers. In his hand he held a carven staff of oak_. JRR Tolkien, _The Hobbit_.

 

* * * * *

“Where are we going Ada?” asked Legolas, scampering along beside his father.

“To the vaults,” replied Thranduil, taking his son’s little hand and guiding him into a dimly-lit side-passage.

Legolas considered his father’s answer. “Ada—what _is_ the vaults?”

“A safe place in which to keep things,” replied Thranduil.

“Oh.” Legolas frowned. “What sort of things?

“You will see when we get there.” The Elvenking hurried down the corridor—making no concessions for the elfling’s tiny stride—to a simple doorway cut into the living rock and, with a curt nod to the guards standing either side, ducked under the lintel, pulling Legolas—“Ada is teaching me how to be King!”—behind him.

“Keep a hold of my hand,” said Thranduil, “these steps are very steep.”

Moving more slowly now, the pair descended to the cellars, then kept going downwards, until the stairs ended in a single narrow corridor, lit by a few scattered torches.

Legolas looked about him. “Is this the dungeons?” he asked.

“What do _you_ know about dungeons?” said Thranduil.

“Gwanur Nerdanel told me that the dungeons are where you keep elflings who have been bad,” said Legolas.

“Did she now,” said Thranduil. “And had you been bad?”

“No Ada…”

“Good.”

After many twists and turns, passing several stout wooden doors secured with heavy padlocks—“Is _this_ where you put the naughty elflings, Ada?”—they came to the remains of a doorway, walled up with massive stone blocks. Thranduil removed a torch from the sconce beside the sealed arch, seized the empty bracket, and pulled it downwards. With a deep groan, the false blocking swung away and the Elvenking, holding the light aloft, led Legolas into the vault.

…

“Oh _Ada_!”

The room was filled with wooden chests, each about the size of Legolas’ own toy box, and some—like his toy box—had been crammed too full, so that their lids could not be closed and the elfling could see what lay inside.

Some of the chests held pieces of green—dark, like the rind of a melon, or bright, like new leaves in spring, or pale, like the waters of the forest river—and all of them flashed and sparkled in the torchlight.

Legolas had never seen anything so fascinating.

He slipped from his father’s grasp and approached the nearest chest, inclining his head this way and that to make the sparks fly. The other boxes were piled with chunks of red—warm and rich, like his ada’s favourite wine—or chips of white—cold, like the ice that had hung from the Great Gates last Yuletide—or pieces of blue—pale, like a fine winter sky.

Legolas took up a handful and let them fall back into the box... “What are these, Ada?”

“Our wealth,” said Thranduil.

“Oh.” Legolas seized another tiny fistful. “Ada, what—”

“Come over here.” Thranduil held out his hand. Legolas dropped the sapphires and toddled, between the chests, to where his father was standing beside a long, narrow box decorated with gold. “Do you recognise _this_?” asked the Elvenking, pointing to the inlay.

“They are beech leaves, Ada,” said Legolas. “And that is your sword.”

Thranduil smiled. “These are the arms of the Woodland Realm,” he said. “They tell us that there is something important in this box, something that belongs to me as King, and to you as Prince, of this kingdom. Whenever you see this sword,”—he traced it with his finger—“surrounded by these leaves, you must remember your duty as Crown Prince. Do you understand?”

“Yes Ada.”

“Good. Now open the chest.”

Obediently, Legolas pushed up the heavy lid. Hand-in-hand, father and son gazed down at three elaborate circlets, intricately wrought in silver, and studded with diamonds and pale, watery emeralds.

“Do you know what those are?” asked Thranduil.

“Crowns…” said Legolas.

“The Crown Jewels of the Woodland Realm,” said Thranduil. “This one,”—he pointed to the largest—“is the King’s; this one, the Queen’s; and this,”— he pointed to the smallest—“belongs to the Crown Prince.”

“Me,” said Legolas.

“You.”

“But…” The elfling stretched out his free hand and tentatively touched the princely circlet. “This is made of metal, Ada. And a _real_ crown is made of flowers and leaves.”

“ _A real crown…?_ ” Gently, Thranduil drew Legolas’ hand from inside the chest and closed the lid. “Come, Lasdithen—let us go outside and I will explain.”

…

The Greenwood was sparkling with light summer rain.

Thranduil led his son through the Great Gates, across the terrace, and lifted him onto the parapet at the side of the stone steps. “Can you see the houses, Legolas? Up in the trees?” The Elvenking pointed, across the Forest River, to various dwellings nestling amongst the branches.

“Yes, Ada.”

“And do you know who lives in them?”

“Our people.”

“Our people—yes—very good. _I_ am their King and _you_ are their Prince. And do you know why kings wear crowns, Lasdithen?”

“So that their people know who they are,” said Legolas.

“ _Very_ good.” Thranduil smiled. “And what _is_ a king? What does he—what do _I_ —do?”

“You work in your study,” said Legolas.

“Yes, sometimes. Doing what?”

“Writing letters.”

“Letters?” Thranduil began to suspect that the conversation might be going awry. “What sort of letters?”

“Letters about wine,” said Legolas, confidently. “When it tastes like vinegar. And about deerskins, when the Beornings have not paid for them.”

“Hmm.” The Elvenking wrapped a strong arm around his son. _How do I explain this_ , he wondered, _to a child?_ “A king,” he said, “takes care of his people, just as an Ada takes care of his son. A king makes sure that his people have food to eat, and a safe place to sleep, and can live without fear. Sometimes he can do it by talking or by writing letters; sometimes by giving gifts or by making payments; but sometimes he has no choice but to stand up for his people—the way I would stand up for you if somebody threatened you,”—he gave his son a proud little hug—“the way _you_ stood up for Collo when Saelbeth was bullying him.

“ _That_ is what a king is. He is his people’s Ada.”

Legolas nodded, but said nothing.

Thranduil continued. “To be an Ada to so many people, a king must be rich. The jewels you saw in the vault—the green and red and white gems—will buy many bows and arrows to protect them.”

The Elvenking frowned—Legolas did not seem as interested as he had expected—but he decided to persevere. “When I am here, in the Palace, I wear a crown of leaves or flowers—a _real_ crown, as you put it,”—he gave the child another little squeeze—“because my people already know that I am their Ada. But when I meet with other kings, I wear a crown of metal—” Thranduil realised that his son’s head had begun to droop. “Are you listening, Legolas?”

“Yes,” said the elfling, his little lip quivering.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Do not tell me ‘nothing’,” said Thranduil. “Tell me what is troubling you.” He leant closer—a trifle impatiently—to hear his son’s mumbled reply.

“I thought you were just _my_ Ada, not _everybody’s_.”

…

“Oh Little Leaf!”

Thranduil—so seldom openly demonstrative—folded his arms about his tiny son and held him against his chest, rocking him back and forth. “Of course I am _your_ Ada! I am your _real_ Ada—not a _pretend_ Ada, as I am to them!”

He kissed the crown of the child _’_ s head. “I love _you_ more than anything in Middle-earth, Legolas Thranduilion,” he said.

And though his heart had always known it, it seemed to Thranduil that his mind was only now recognising the truth of it. “No Ada ever loved his elfling more than I love _you_ , my precious, precious son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish  
> Ada … 'daddy'  
> Lasdithen … 'Little Leaf'  
> Gwanur … 'Kinswoman' (since there doesn't seem to be a Sindarin word for 'nurse').


	3. The Butterfly

“Ada!” Legolas raced through the trees, holding out a tiny hand. “ _Look!_ ”

Thranduil, seeing the splash of red and black in his son’s cupped palm, sighed. “A butterfly—Legolas, you should have left it wherever you found it.”

“It was in the _sky_ , Ada.” Legolas peered at the insect, his little fingers hovering over its jewelled wings but careful not to touch them. “I just held out my hand and it came down to me. Can I take it home?”

Thranduil shook his head, but the elfling was far too engrossed to see him. “Come with me. Legolas— _come_.” He grasped the child’s shoulder and gently guided him to a fallen oak tree lying beside the path they had been following. “Sit down, ion nín.”

Keeping his eyes on the butterfly, and his hand steady, Legolas slowly lowered his bottom.

Thranduil could not help smiling. “It _is_ beautiful,” he said, “and I can understand why you want to keep it, but it would be cruel, Legolas.”

The child looked up from the insect at last—a puzzled frown on his little face. “ _Why_ would it be cruel, Ada? He could have all my garden to fly in.”

The Elvenking wrapped his arm around his son’s slight shoulders. “But a butterfly is mortal, Lasdithen. Do you know what ‘mortal’ means?”

Legolas shook his head.

“Do you remember what I told you about your Nana? Why she does not live with us?”

“Because she died.”

Thranduil nodded. “Your Nana grew so tired that she fell asleep and could not wake up. That is why she cannot be with us. And it makes us both sad.”

“Yes.”

Thranduil gave his son a little squeeze. “You and I will never tire like that, Legolas. We are made to live until the end of days. But _mortals_ are made to die when they have lived for their allotted time, and a butterfly tires and dies after having lived for just a few days.”

Legolas stared down at the insect. “ _Days?_ ”

“It does not seem possible, does it? Not now, when it is young and healthy, fluttering from flower to flower… But a butterfly has work do, Lasdithen, and only a short time in which to do it.”

“What work, Ada?”

“It must find another butterfly so that they can have children together.”

Slowly, Legolas lifted his hand and looked at the butterfly’s delicate legs, whilst he gave that idea some consideration. “Where do they _find_ their children, Ada?”

“Well… Each creature—butterfly, elf, horse, human—carries the seeds of new life inside him—or her. But those seeds must be mingled with the seeds of another before they can grow. One day,” he added, quickly, “I will explain to you how the mingling takes place, Legolas, but not today. Today, all I shall say is that you must set the butterfly free so that it can find its mate, as Eru intended.”

“But _I_ am not keeping him here, Ada, _he_ is staying—”

“It is staying because it knows that you want it to stay, Lasdithen. It can feel your love, ion nín…” Thranduil squeezed his son again. “You must tell it that you want it to go.”

“But…”

“You want it to be happy, do you not?”

“What if I found another one, Ada? Then they could _both_ live in my garden, and their children, too.”

“No, Legolas. A butterfly must choose its own mate. And remember how little time it has—every moment is precious. Set it free.” He leaned down and kissed the top of his son’s head. “Hold up your hand, ion nín, and say, ‘Fly away, butterfly, and find your mate.’ ”

The elfling hesitated.

“Go on, Tithen Lassui,” said Thranduil.

Legolas raised his hand. “Fly away, butterfly,” he said, bravely. “Fly away and find your mate—and bring her to live in my garden, if you like.”

“Good boy,” said the Elvenking, proudly.

And father and son watched the butterfly flutter away.

…

“Butterflies,” said Thranduil.

“Your Majesty?”

“I want butterflies, Gwindor. In my garden, and in my son’s. You must make a home for them—I have heard that there are plants to which they are particularly attracted.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” said the head gardener. “There is gwaloth thlhûn—I believe the edain call it the butterfly bush. And the young of the Faen butterfly live on cabbages, and the Mîr on thistles. But whether they can be lured underground by planting—”

“You must find eggs, Gwindor, and bring them to hatch here; you must keep bringing them until the butterflies are established.”

“As you wish, your Majesty.” The gardener bowed low. “Will there be anything else, sire?”

“Oh, I am sure there will be— _much_ more,” said Thranduil. “My son has a questing spirit, Gwindor. Just give him time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish  
> Ada … 'daddy'  
> Nana … 'mummy'  
> Lasdithen … 'Little Leaf'  
> Tithen Lassui … 'Little Leafy'  
> Gwaloth thlhûn … 'blue blossom' (buddleia or butterfly bush)  
> Faen … 'radiant' (I had in mind a Cabbage White butterfly)  
> Mîr … 'jewel' (Painted Lady).


	4. The Artist

King Thranduil looked up from particularly vexing paragraph in Elrond’s latest letter with a sudden alarming thought: _Legolas is very quiet…_

The Elvenking rose from his desk, stepped over the sea of papers that always seemed to accumulate when he was working, and prowled around his study in search of his small son.

Legolas was not—as Thranduil had feared—‘being a spider’ on top of one of the bookcases.

Nor, this time, was he— _Eru be praised_ —attempting to light a fire in his ‘goblin cave’ beneath the map table.

No—this time, Thranduil found him in the garden cavern, kneeling by the low stone bench that ran the full length of one of the walls, drawing on a piece of parchment.

 _A red sausage_.

Thranduil paused to brush a few crumbs of colour from the seat before sitting down. “Where did the chalks come from, Legolas?”

“Lord Astaldo _gave_ them to me, Ada,” said the elfling, looking up from his picture and beaming—giving Thranduil the opportunity to note that his hands, his nose and, for some reason, his teeth and tongue, all needed a good scrub. “And _these_ as well.” He patted a pile of parchment trimmings—odd-shaped fragments cut from the edges of the skins—and left a smudge of small, greenish finger marks on the top piece.

 _I must repay the Counsellor’s kindness_ , thought Thranduil, watching his son wipe a chalky hand down the front of his velvet tunic. _Perhaps his daughter would like a lump of clay to play with. Or a pail of whitewash…_ “And what are you drawing?”

“A snake,” said the elfling, seriously.

“A _snake_. May I see it?”

The child leaned back; Thranduil leaned forward and, looking more closely, saw that the red sausage did, in fact, have two small yellow eyes.

“Have you drawn anything else?”

“Yes.”

“May I see what?”

His son laid down his piece of chalk—“No, put it in the box, Legolas,”—gathered up several drawings from the floor, and handed them over.

“Thank you.” Thranduil looked at the first picture—a bright orange creature with a big sunflower of a head, two short, sturdy legs and a long, wavy tail.

Legolas had never actually seen a lion—nor, for that matter, had his father—but a passing Haradin merchant, telling him tales of ‘the king of beasts’, had so captivated the child that the Elvenking had spent an entire morning searching his library for a woodcut, which father and son had then studied in detail.

The elfling had, Thranduil thought, made a reasonable job of putting the image and the description together; though, with its round eyes and lopsided grin, the creature was not, perhaps, as fierce as it might have been. He glanced at his son as he laid the picture down. Legolas had taken up a stick of green and, biting his little tongue in concentration, was carefully adding spots to the sausage-snake.

Thranduil took up the next picture—a drawing of a short, round-bodied, yellow-haired fellow with strong dark brows and piercing blue eyes (arranged in a strangely familiar scowl). “Who is this?”

Legolas peered at the parchment in his father’s hands. “That is _you_ , Ada!”

 _Me…?_ The Elvenking looked again. Yes, the little figure was wearing a crown—wide and white and balanced upon the tips of his ears. Thranduil considered his expression. _Am I really more ferocious than a lion?_

He laid down his portrait and picked up his son’s final drawing. “Legolas…?”

The elfling added some finishing touches to the sausage-snake’s forked tongue before looking up.

“Did you come into my bedchamber this morning?”

Legolas nodded.

“Why?”

“I wanted us to go to the stables, Ada—to see the baby horse.”

Thranduil took another long look at his son’s drawing. _Elrond’s letter can wait_ , he thought. “Would you like to see the baby horse now?”

Legolas’ smile was like the sun emerging from the clouds.

“Go and wash your hands and face first,” said Thranduil. “There is a good boy.”

…

The Elvenking waited until his son had left the garden, then gathered up the child’s drawings and returned to his study. His own portrait, the smiling lion and the jolly sausage-snake he carefully pinned to the carved wooden screen beside his desk. The other picture he studied for a few moments more; then—with a sigh of regret—he crossed to the fireplace, laid the parchment in the grate and, taking up his tinderbox and striking a spark, he quickly burned the evidence.

…

“Hello, baby horse…”

All elves had an affinity with horses— _But Legolas_ , thought Thranduil proudly, _is exceptionally gifted_.

The Elvenking watched his small son approach the little grey foal, slowly and calmly, murmuring reassuring words. _It will do the boy good to help raise it_ , he thought, _—to have a few small responsibilities of his own_. “What will you call him, Lasdithen?”

Legolas patted the foal’s neck, laughing happily when the horse nuzzled his shoulder, and pushed unexpectedly hard. “Silverwings,” he said.

“ _Silverwings._ ” Thranduil smiled. Then, as if suddenly making up his mind—though, in reality, the decision had been made the moment he had seen Legolas’ drawing—“Maeglin,” he said, “see that my son gets back to my study. Legolas, when you have finished making friends with Silverwings, go with Maeglin. I will be there soon.”

…

“Your Majesty!— _Thranduil…_ ”

“May I come in?”

“Of course.” The beautiful elleth stepped aside and—clearly uncertain how she should behave, given their recent intimacy—bent in a half-curtsey before closing the door.

“You left these.” Thranduil handed her a pair white silk drawers.

“Thank you…”

 _She must already know why I am here_ , he thought. “I do not regret last night,” he said, “it was an unexpected joy—but there is my son to think of.”

The elleth frowned up at him, uncomprehending.

“My son came to my bedchamber this morning. Fortunately, you had already left and when he saw these,”—he pointed to the drawers—“lying on my bed he assumed that they were mine. But, had he come in just a half hour earlier, he would have seen _us_.”

“We can be more careful—you can come here— _your Majesty_ —” She suddenly remembered her place, and curtsied again, awkwardly.

“I will not hide from my son,” said Thranduil, shaking his head. “Legolas must always know that he can come to me whenever he needs me. When he is older, perhaps—when he can understand—it will be different. But he will _always_ come first.”

“I love you,” said the elleth, forlornly.

“No,” said Thranduil, gently. “But I thank you for saying so.”

…

Back in his study, the Elvenking found Legolas on his hands and knees, beside his father's desk, vigorously colouring another drawing. “What is it this time, ion nín?”

“The baby horse.”

“Let me see.”

Legolas held up his picture.

He had drawn the foal—for some reason in pale green—with a large triangular head and a big round body. But there was something about the way he had tried to convey the animal’s long, gangly legs, with their overlarge knees and awkward feet, and—especially—about the way he had added a pair of feathered wings to the horse’s back, that made Thranduil think: _If he is still enthusiastic in a year or so’s time, I will find him a drawing teacher…_

“When you have finished,” he said, “we will write his name at the bottom, and pin him up with your other pictures.” He gave his son a hug. “But do _try_ not to get any more chalk on your tunic, Legolas.”

…

Seated at his desk, the Elvenking looked, over his son's head, at the ashes in the grate.

Legolas seemed to have forgotten his other drawing.

But Thranduil did not believe that _he_ would ever recover from the shock of seeing his son’s picture—of a small, round-bodied Elvenking wearing nothing—besides his huge crown—but a knee-length pair of lacy, beribboned white silk drawers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish  
> Ada … 'daddy'  
> Lasdithen … 'Little Leaf'  
> Tithen Lassui … 'Little Leafy'  
> Ion nín … 'My son'


	5. The Gyngerbrede

Take a quart of hony, & sethe it, & skeme it clene; take Safroun, pouder Pepir, & þrow ther-on; take gratyd Brede, & make it so chargeaunt þat it wol be y-leched; þen take pouder Canelle, & straw þer-on y-now; þen make yt square, lyke as þou wolt leche it; take when þou lechyst hyt, an caste Box leaves a-bouyn, y-stkyd þer-on, on clowys. And if þou wolt haue it Red, coloure it with Saunderys y-now. Harleian MS. 279, England, 15th century.*

* * * * *

It had snowed again during the night and Greenwood the Great looked like the tiny Forest inside the snow globe that Legolas’ Ada had given him on his last conception day. Standing upon the terrace, just outside the Gates of Thranduil’s Hall, the elfling watched curiously as his friend, Aredhel, holding on to her father’s hand, sat down upon the white ground.

“Would you like to play with us, your Highness?” asked his father’s Chief Counsellor.

“No, thank you, Lord Astaldo,” replied Legolas, politely. “Ada said that I must wait for him here—and that I must not get dirty.”

Smiling, Lord Astaldo bowed his head.

Then he, too, sat down, a little way away from his daughter. “Ready?”

Aredhel laughed. “Yes, Ada.”

“Lie back…”

Wide-eyed, Legolas watched the pair sink onto their backs.

“Now,” said Lord Astaldo, “use your arms and legs as I showed you.”

Despite his father’s instructions, Legolas moved a little closer. Aredhel was flapping her arms up and down like a bird’s wings, and sliding her legs back and forth like a pair of shears.

The elfling frowned—

“Legolas?”

…

Thranduil approached his small son. “Legolas!”

The boy turned—and the wistful look on his little face took the Elvenking by surprise. “Whatever is happening out there?” He strode outside—and sighed. “Are you not several thousand years too old to be doing that, Astaldo?”

The Counsellor pushed himself up on his elbows and smiled at his king. “Children are only this age once, your Majesty,” he said.

“Fortunately,” agreed Thranduil.

…

Legolas slipped past his father.

“Look, Lassui,” said Aredhel. She rolled over onto her side and scrambled to her feet and both elflings, standing side-by-side, stared down at the marks that she had left on the snow.

“What is it?” asked Legolas.

“A snow Varda,” said Aredhel. “See—here is her head, and there is her gown, and this is the starlight around her.”

Legolas grinned. “Ada, look—”

“Come, Legolas,” called his father. “We have important things to do this morning.”

…

The King and the Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm mounted their horses and, escorted by a company of lightly-armed warriors, crossed the Forest River and trotted along the imposing, tree-lined avenue to meet their guests—a ragged-looking band of humans, muffled in wool and swathed in furs, slowly ploughing their way through the deep snow, leading their exhausted horses behind them.

Thranduil greeted the men formally, welcoming them to his Hall for the Yuletide celebrations, and introducing his small son to their leader.

“It is an honour, your Highness,” said the chieftain, bowing low.

The man was shorter than an elf, and much broader, and his hair and beard were white and unruly, but his smile was kind. Beaming, Legolas placed his hand upon his heart, and bowed his little head, and said, in Westron, as his father had taught him, “I am pleased to meet you, Chief Bóðvarr örðigskeggi.” Then, all by himself, he added, “Shall I show you how to walk on the snow?”

To the elfling’s surprise, the Beorning did not say yes.

Instead, he threw back his head and laughed—“Ho, ho, ho!”—and all his men laughed with him.

“Ada?”

“Hush now, ion nín,” said Thranduil, “I will explain later.”

…

For the rest of the day, King Thranduil plied the Beornings with mulled ale and with roasted meats; then, early the following morning, he lured Chief Bóðvarr into his study to discuss certain matters of mutual advantage.

The Elvenking had planned that Legolas should be present at the discussions— _For that is how I learned statecraft_ , he thought, _by listening to my father_ —but, at the last moment, he had changed his mind. _Lassui has taken a liking to the man, and the man to him. He would be a distraction_.

He beckoned one of his guards. “My compliments to Mistress Nerdanel, Maeglin,” he said. “Tell her that I wish her to take care of my son for the rest of the day. Go with Maeglin, Lasdithen.”

…

Gwanur Nerdanel received her orders with a cheerful smile. “I was just going to the kitchens, little prince,” she said, “to make some gyngerbrede for my nephews. Shall we go together?”

She held out her hand.

“I did not know that you could make gyngerbrede,” said Legolas, scampering along beside her.

“Goodness, child! Where did you think it came from?”

Legolas thought for a moment. “Esgaroth,” he said.

…

The kitchens (which Legolas was usually forbidden to enter) were an exciting place, full of elves slicing, stirring, beating and baking—all cheerfully making the exotic and delicious-smelling dishes that would be served at that evening’s Yuletide Feast.

The head cook, though surprised to receive a royal visit, made the little prince welcome, finding him a starched white cloth—which Gwanur Nerdanel tied around his middle—and a high stool, and setting him up in a quiet corner with various strange-looking objects and some interesting-looking jars.

“And there are some fine loaves in the pantry,” he said.

“I will go and fetch one,” said Nerdanel. “Wait here, little prince.”

Legolas nodded.

From his stool, he watched the elleth cross the kitchen and disappear through a door; he watched her emerge, moments later, carrying a long loaf of white bread; and he watched her stop to speak to one of the elves, who was sprinkling something into a bowl…

Legolas waited.

And waited.

Then he examined the utensils, one by one, experimentally running his fingers over the sharp teeth of the grater, pulling a few funny faces in the shiny saucepan, tapping a song on the table with the wooden spoon…

He put the spoon down.

Gwanur Nerdanel was still talking.

Legolas waited.

And waited.

Then he picked up each of the jars in turn, and read its label out aloud. “Sa-ffron. San-dal-wood. Cin… Cin-na-mon. Pep-per.”

Pepper? He pulled out the cork, peered inside—the pepper was a fine, grey powder. He sniffed. “Oh!” he gasped, “Ah!” And he screwed up his little face, and—and—and—

“A-choo!”

Legolas looked around, guiltily.

But, luckily, no one had seen. He jammed the stopper back in the jar, and put the jar with the others.

“Are we ready, little prince?” asked Gwanur Nerdanel, moments later.

“Yes,” said Legolas, hiding behind a huge smile.

…

They boiled the honey, and added some sandalwood to make it red, and sprinkled in the spices—though Legolas did try to persuade Gwanur Nerdanel that the gyngerbrede might taste better without the pepper—“That is what makes your tongue tingle, little prince!”

Then Legolas added the breadcrumbs, a small handful at a time, and Nerdanel stirred, until the mixture was stiff enough, and they tipped it out, and patted it square, and Nerdanel cut it into thin slices.

“Now for the best part,” she said, smiling down at the elfling. She laid one of the slices on a wooden board and, using the point of a knife, she cut it into the shape of an elf—head, arms, body and legs—trimming away the extra paste. “There.”

“Can I make one?”

“Of course, little prince.” Nerdanel carefully lifted the biscuit, laid it on a wooden rack to harden, and put another slice of gyngerbrede on the cutting board.

Legolas rose up on the rung of his stool and, leaning on the table, (and being very careful with the knife, as instructed), he scratched a figure into the paste.

“He looks happy,” said the elleth, cutting round the outline for him. “Wherever is he running, in such a hurry?”

“Outside,” said Legolas, “to play in the snow.”

…

**Later**

The Elvenking’s Great Hall was decked with boughs of holly and with garlands of evergreens for the Yuletide feast. Legolas, wearing his very best tunic and his princely coronet, sat at the High Table, between his father and Chief Bóðvarr, who loved children (but had none of his own) and was in his element, teaching the elfling to hang a spoon on the tip of his nose, and to burp, and to drain his little tankard of spiced apple juice in a single draught.

“Well done!” he roared.

Legolas grinned.

The chieftain picked a chunk of roasted fowl from a serving platter. “Ah,” he said, “I have found a wishbone, your Highness!” He stripped off the meat and held out the bone. “Pull,” he said.

Legolas, though he had never heard of a wishbone before, grasped one end, and pulled.

There was a quiet _snap_.

“You have won, your Highness,” said the Beorning. “Look!”

Legolas looked—but could not see how the man could tell.

“Now,” said Chief Bóðvarr, “you must make a wish.”

“What sort of wish?”

“Any sort of wish—wish for something you want more than anything else in the world.”

Legolas looked dubiously at the broken bone.

“Anything,” said the Beorning.

“I wish…” said Legolas.

“No!” Bóðvarr laughed. “You must not say it out aloud, your Higness. It must be secret.”

“But how will he know what I want?”

“How will who know?”

“Ada.”

The Beorning laughed again. “It is the gods who grant your wish, your Highness, not… Ah, I see…” He leaned in closer to the elfling. “Tell me what you want,” he said. “Whisper.”

…

The main courses were cleared away, and the serving elves and ellith brought in the dessert trays, laden with cider-soaked caraway cakes and dishes of spiced syllabub, with plates of gyngerbrede and fruited biscuits, and with boards of fine cheeses. To the High Table one of the elves carried a special platter and, with a deep bow, laid it before King Thranduil.

“Look Ada!” cried Legolas, bouncing up and down with excitement. But, over his head, his father and the Beorning chieftain were in deep conversation.

Legolas tugged at the man’s sleeve. “Look, Chief Bóðvarr!”

“Lassui!” cried Thranduil.

The chieftain shook his head, smiling. “What is it your Highness? Oh, yes! Look, your Majesty!”

Frowning, the Elvenking followed the man’s pointing finger—and even his irritation immediately vanished. On the oval wooden plate, two gyngerbrede elves, one large, one small, were running excitedly across a snowy Forest of rosemary and bay leaves sprinkled with fine white sugar.

“Did you make these yourself, Lassui?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Legolas, proudly. “Well, Gwanur Nerdanel helped with the mixing and the cutting, but I drew them, and I made the trees, and—oh,” he squeaked, suddenly remembering the pepper incident as his father picked up the the larger of the gyngerbrede elves and bit off its head, “does it—does it taste alright, Ada?”

“It tastes very good,” said Thranduil. “Clever boy.”

…

**Next morning**

Stifling a yawn—for the room was warm and he had already been listening to the Elvenking’s proposals for some hours—Chief Bóðvarr örðigskeggi set his tankard on the table and settled back in his chair, stretching his legs out towards the fire. “That is enough, for now, I think,” he said. “It is time you took your son for a walk in the snow.”

King Thranduil scowled. “What?”

“The snow,” said the Beorning. “I know that an elfling grows more slowly than a human boy, but even Legolas will not be a child for ever. Do not waste these precious days of Yuletide buttering up a crusty old warrior. Your son wants to play in the snow. Go and take him outside.”

“Legolas is a sensible child,” said Thranduil. “He understands—”

“He wants to play in the snow,” said the Beorning, firmly. “He told me so himself—he wants to play with you. Go and take him out.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You will not get another word out of me on any other subject.”

“Do not be childish!” said Thranduil.

“Go and be childish!” said the Beorning.

The Elvenking gasped.

The man laughed. “I will still be here,” he added, diplomatically, “when Legolas has tired himself out.”

“Elflings do not tire so easily, Chief Bóðvarr,” replied Thranduil.

“But a man,” said the Beorning, yawning openly now, “can take a nap, King Thranduil, and will awaken much more inclined to talk.”

…

“Look Ada,” said Legolas, excitedly. as they passed, hand-in-hand, through the Enchanted Gates, “it is snowing again!”

Thranduil, remembering the days when, as an elfling, he had played in the snow with his own father, pointed to the far bank of the Forest River. “Last one across the bridge is a goblin!” he cried.

Laughing, Legolas dashed off, with his Ada at his heels.

And the Beorning chieftain, taking a little fresh air on the terrace, watched them, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Take a quart of honey, & boil it, and skim it clean; take saffron, powder pepper, and throw thereon; take grated bread, & make (the mixture) so stiff that it can be sliced; then take powder cinnamon, & strew thereon enough; then make it square, like as thou wouldst slice it; take when thou slicest it, and cast box leaves over it, stuck thereon with cloves. And if thou wouldst have it red, colour it with sandalwood enough.
> 
> Elvish  
> Ada … 'daddy'  
> Lasdithen … 'Little Leaf'  
> Lassui … 'Leafy'  
> Ion nín … 'My son'.
> 
> The Beorning  
> örðigskeggi is a real Viking byname, which means 'bristlebeard'.


	6. The Goblin

A small face peered over the edge of King Thranduil’s desk.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” said the Elvenking, without looking up. “It cannot be helped.”

“But…”

“We will go another time.”

“Could we not,” the elfling persisted, “go _afterwards_.”

“Afterwards will be too late.”

“But—”

“ _No_.”

King Thranduil sighed—an Elvenking was a poor match for a small, determined elfling. “No, Legolas,” he repeated. “As I have already explained,”—he gave the child a little hug—“the messenger arrived unexpectedly, and must be dealt with today. That means that I have to cancel our excursion. We will still spend tomorrow together, ion nín, but we will not be able to see the sun rise over Erebor, as we planned. However, we _will_ do that another time.” The King looked down at his son—and the disappointment on the boy’s little face suddenly wrung his heart. “Well… Suppose we open one of your presents a day early?”

Legolas’ smile could have melted ice.

…

At the heart of King Thranduil’s cavernous study, a couch, some chairs, and a low table (standing upon a beautiful Haradin rug) formed a comfortable sitting area, where the Elvenking entertained his more important guests—and drove some of his harder bargains.

Today, a pile of presents lay beneath the table, sent by the King’s various allies in celebration of his son’s conception day.

Thranduil watched Legolas run over to the parcels, his little arms flailing. “Just _one_ , Lassui!”

…

There was a large one, wrapped in scarlet velvet; there was a long, thin one, wrapped in royal blue; there was a round one, wrapped in rich green brocade; and there was a wooden-box one, inlaid with figures—a bird, a foot, and a strange, staring eye—fashioned in ebony and tinted ivory.

“Choose,” said Thranduil.

Legolas considered the different shapes, sizes, and colours, and decided he liked the red one best. “This one, Ada.”

“Very well. Open it.”

Excitedly, Legolas untied the cord and pulled the wrapping away. Inside was a jerkin of smooth, brown leather—rich, like a ripe chestnut—decorated down the front with swirly patterns, and around the bottom with shiny metal points.

The elfling sat back on his heels with a puzzled frown. “A _goblin_ coat…”

“Human armour, Legolas,” said his father. He picked up the tiny cuirass and examined the tooling of its boiled leather, and the casting of its brass studs. “And very fine armour it is. Later, we will write to Chief Bóðvarr, thanking him for his generosity, and telling him how much you appreciate his gift.” He laid the cuirass on the table. “Now, ion nín, did you bring your Primer?”

“Yes…” Legolas toddled back to his father’s desk and picked up a small book, which he held up for Thranduil to see.

“Good,” said the Elvenking. “I must go to the Great Hall, to receive the messenger—”

“Can I come too, Ada?”

“No; not today, Legolas.” The Elvenking lifted his son onto the couch. “Today, I want you to stay here, like a good boy, and learn your tengwar. I will send Gwanur Nerdanel to sit with you.”

…

Feet dangling and lips pursed, Legolas watched his father leave the study. _Why do messengers_ always _come when Ada is supposed to be taking me out into the Forest?_

He sighed heavily and, opening his Primer, found the table of tengwar, and carefully unfolded it. Then he placed his little hand over the caption beside the first character, and stared at the black squiggle for a moment or two.

“Tinco,” he said, decisively, and lifted his hand. The answer was there, but Legolas could not decipher it.

Undeterred, he carried on. “Palma.” He raised his hand. “Or… Calma?” It was too hard without his Ada or his Gwanur Nerdanel to tell him when he was right.

Legolas looked at the goblin coat lying on the table and wondered if goblins had to learn to read.

“Only _goblin_ words,” he thought. “Like ‘gurrrr’,”—growling, deep in his throat—“and ‘gaarrh’.”

Not hard words.

Not Elvish.

He laid down his Primer—carefully, because his Ada had told him that a book was the most valuable thing in the world—scrambled to the floor, and picked up his goblin coat.

It was stiff, and quite heavy, but he slipped his hand through one of the armholes, and shrugged it on—

_“Gurrrr!”_

_The little goblin raised his arms and, stamping his feet, shook his fists at one of the stone Ladies standing beside the fireplace. “Gah!_ Gaarrh! _”_

The stone Lady, however, was not impressed.

 _The goblin sighed. “Where is my goblin_ sword _?_ ”

Legolas thought of the silver paper knife on his Ada’s desk. But his Ada had told him that he must never touch it.

 _The goblin wondered whether_ goblins _really needed to do what their Adas told them._

Legolas decided that it would probably be best if they did.

_“Gaarrh!”_

_The goblin dropped to the ground, his head darting this way and that, his beady eyes surveying the Haradin landscape. Directly ahead, a huge pile of treasure lay glittering in the mouth of a cave._

Legolas crawled forwards on his hands and knees, his little behind high in the air.

_There was a long, thin sapphire, blue as the sky; a big round emerald, green as the Forest; and a wooden box, no doubt filled to the brim with coins of silver and gold…_

Legolas could not help noticing that the wrapping on the blue parcel was loose and—once he had seen it—it was hard not to stretch out his hand, and poke it with a finger.

 _The goblin caught a glimpse of gnarled wood, polished smooth—not a goblin sword, but a goblin_ club _!_

Legolas looked over his shoulder. The door was closed. No one could see him.

_The goblin crawled closer._

But Legolas’ Ada had said that he could only open _one_ present.

The elfling chewed his lip. The wrapping had been tied with a golden cord, and the bow had slipped, allowing the edges of the fabric to fall apart. But Legolas was good at tying bows. If he unwrapped the goblin club, he could wrap it up again, properly.

 _That_ would not be naughty. He pulled the end of the cord.

_“Gurrrr!”_

_The goblin seized the weapon and jumped to his feet, waving it in the air. “Gah!_ Gaarrh! _”_

The stone Lady looked a bit frightened.

 _“I—want—your—gold!”_ _The goblin threw himself at the wooden chest._

The box lid flew open.

“Oh!” squeaked Legolas.

Inside, the box was divided into compartments, each lined with dark red silk; and sitting in each of the holes was a little statue—six shiny black and six frosty white.

Curious, Legolas lifted out one of the black pieces. It was cold, and very heavy and, when he looked at it closely, he smiled, for it was a lion—which he recognised from a picture in one of his Ada’s books—sitting on its haunches, its curly head held high, its broad, velvety muzzle wrinkled in a fierce snarl.

Legolas set the lion on the table and pulled out a white piece. This one was a deer, tall and slender, hiding behind a tree stump.

_The goblin grabbed both animals._

_“I am going to EAT you,” he threatened, in a deep, dark voice, making the lion loom over the deer._

_“No, no,” he piped, making the deer back away._

_“Raaaaa,” he roared, making the lion pounce._

_“Aagh,” he squealed, making the deer struggle, “aagh,_ aaaagh _!”_

But, safe in Legolas’ little hand, the deer suddenly broke free and, leaping high, it alighted on the Forest green brocade, and slipped into hiding between its folds.

 _“YES,” cried the goblin, spotting a flash of curved metal beneath the green fabric. “A goblin_ helmet _!”_

_…_

Legolas stared thoughtfully at the last of his presents.

_“Go on,” said the goblin. “We are already in big trouble, so opening that one will not make any difference.”_

“No,” said the elfling, firmly. He slid his hand under the green fabric and pulled out the deer.

_“What are you doing?” asked the goblin._

“I am putting them back,” said Legolas, fitting the piece into its little compartment. He picked up the lion. “And then I am going to wrap everything up again.”

“ _Just_ try _the helmet._ ”

“No.” Legolas closed the box lid, and fastened the catch.

 _“Only for a moment._ Look _.” The goblin pulled aside the wrapping. The helmet was a funny shape—wide and shallow, with a tall crest that ended in three clawed feet—but it was about the right size._

Legolas looked down at the silver drinking cup. “Well…” he said.

_“Go on.”_

“I have to learn my tengwar.”

_“Learning tengwar is boring,” said the goblin._

“I know.”

 _“Being a_ goblin _is fun.”_

“I know,” admitted Legolas. “But Ada said—”

 _“Ada said! Ada said!” cried the goblin. “Ada_ said _that he would take you out into the Forest! Ada_ said _that you would spend the night under the stars. Ada_ said _that you would watch the sun rise over Erebor on your conception day—”_

“But a _messenger_ came—”

_“If you put that helmet on,” said the goblin, “we can go out.”_

“By ourselves?”

_“Why not? You want to go.”_

“Yes,” said Legolas. “But… But I want to go with Ada.”

_“You are scared!”_

“I am NOT!”

_“Then why not put the helmet on, and go?”_

“Because,” said Legolas, his little face screwed up in misery, “because… _Ohhhh_!” He grasped the green fabric in frustration.

…

**Half an hour later**

“Oh! Your Majesty.” Mistress Nerdanel, almost colliding with the Elvenking as she hurried towards his study, dropped into a low curtsey.

King Thranduil frowned. “Why are you out here?” he demanded.

“I received your message only moments ago, sire—I… I am sorry, I—”

“Are you saying that Legolas has been on his own all this time?”

“He has, sire.”

The Elvenking sighed. “Well—he is a responsible boy. Yes,”—he dismissed the elleth with a wave of his hand—“you may go, Nerdanel.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” She curtsied again.

King Thranduil opened his study door—

Legolas, looking like a little blond beetle in his stiff leather cuirass, glanced up from his Primer and, greeting his father with a radiant smile, said excitedly, “I know them, Ada! I know _all_ of them!”

“Do you,” replied Thranduil, quickly scanning the room for any signs of the trouble—vague, but unmistakable—that his parental sixth sense was detecting.

“Yes,” said the elfling. “I have _learnt_ them!”

Thranduil eyed the pile of presents beneath the table. Nothing seemed amiss—unless the pile was just a little too tidy. _The boy_ , he thought, _has probably been poking at them._ He sat down beside his son. “Show me what you know.”

Legolas took a deep breath and, pointing to each character in turn, recited, “Tinco, palma, calma, quesse; ando, umbar, anga, ungwe; sûle, formen, harma, hwesta; anto, ampa, anca, unque; númen, malta, noldo, nwalme; óre, vala, anna, vilya; rómen, arda, lambe, alda.”

“Good,” said the Elvenking. “Now, give the book to me—thank you.” He pointed to one of the characters at random. “What is this?”

“Nwalme,” said Legolas.

“And this?”

“Hwesta.”

“And this one?”

“Palma.”

“ _Very_ good…” Thranduil closed the Primer, impressed with his son’s progress. “I am pleased, Lasdithen.”

The elfling smiled proudly. “Have you finished talking to the messenger, Ada?”

“I have,” said the King, setting the book on the table.

“So…” The elfling hesitated; then he said, “Well… Can we… I mean… Can we go for a ride tomorrow? Can we go to the black caves?”

“The black caves? The black caves are dangerous, Lasdithen,” said the Elvenking, “full of spiders, and gaurhoth, and goodness knows what else. Why would you want to go to the black caves, ion nín?”

“To kill _goblins_ ,” said Legolas, vehemently.


	7. A Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Legolas/Eowyn story, in which both Little Legolas and Little Eowyn make appearances.

It was very late.

Little Eldarion had been put to bed many hours before; Lothiriel and Arwen had also retired; King Thranduil had joined Cyllien in the bedchamber; Hentmirë had fallen asleep before the fire; and Gimli, aided and abetted by Aragorn and Legolas, was entertaining Faramir and Berengar with a blow-by-blow account of his dealings with the Army of the Dead…

Eomer filled two goblets with hot, spiced wine and, smiling, handed one to Eowyn. “Do you remember,” he asked, “when father was alive, how he used to take us to the Yuletide Horse Fair?”

Eowyn frowned. “I remember buying horses, yes—but I cannot say that I really remember the fair.”

“Not even getting your puppet there?”

“My puppet?” She looked puzzled. Then her face suddenly brightened, and she smiled, broadly. “My puppet, _Melwenwyn_! Yes, I do remember her, now that you have reminded me! Oh, how I loved her! Fancy _your_ remembering her when I had forgotten!”

“Well, Theodred and I were kept indoors for a week for throwing her over the roof of the Golden Hall—you always _were_ uncle’s favourite.”

Eowyn grinned. “I remember that, too. You claimed that you were teaching her to fly, but you broke one of her eyes. Did I really get her at the Yuletide Horse Fair?”

She sank back in her chair and, with the help of the wine and the warmth of the fire, she let Eomer’s reminiscences take her back, more than twenty years.

...

**The Yuletide Horse Fair**

“Now hold my hand.”

Eowyn reached for the big, strong fingers, and felt them envelop her own small hand, squeezing it gently. She smiled up at her daddy. “Horsies!”

“Yes,” he said, “and we are going to buy one.”

Flanked right and left by a small guard of Rohirrim, the pair walked through the frosty market, past stalls displaying skeins of yarn and rolls of warm, woollen cloth; past strange, dark men selling fruits and oils and strong-smelling spices—one of them gave Eowyn a big, black berry and he and her daddy both laughed when she spat it out because it tasted horrid; past blacksmiths, saddlers and harness makers; past jugglers, tumblers, and a man eating fire…

And everyone seemed to know them, and stepped aside, bowing as they passed.

Eowyn pulled at her father’s hand, and pointed to a man holding a brightly-striped box, and they stopped so that she could have a better look. Inside the box there were two tiny dwarves, with rosy-red cheeks and big noses, and her daddy told her that they were called ‘puppets’. They were threatening each other with little axes.

Eowyn called to them, and they turned, startled, and peered at her, and they looked funny, so she waved to them, laughing—

And, whilst the smaller dwarf was waving back, the big one suddenly swung his axe, and knocked the small one flat. And then he hit him, again and again and again—

“ _Waaaaaaah!_ ” wailed Eowyn.

And her daddy picked her up, and hugged her, but he was laughing. “It is not real, little lady,” he said, rubbing her back, soothingly. “Come, I will show you.” He carried her closer (and his Guards followed, forming a circle around the puppeteer). “See?”

Eowyn stared down at the two dwarves. The small one did not _seem_ to be hurt…

“Show my daughter how they work.”

Still breathing with little, gulping sobs, Eowyn watched in fascination as the dwarves collapsed and the man, though his hands were still holding the box, brought out two _more_ hands and waved them at her.

“ _Daddy!_ ” she shrieked, burying her face in his hair.

“ _Shhhhh! Shh-shh-shh!_ ” Her father’s voice was still full of laughter. “It is a game, Eowyn. Just make-believe. Look again.”

She turned her head, slowly.

The man’s second pair of hands had disappeared, and now the dwarves were bobbing up and down, taking it in turns to bow to her.

“Watch,” said her father. “These,”—he touched one of the hands holding the box—“are just _pretend_ hands.” He pinched them, hard. “His real hands are inside the dwarves, making them move. There is nothing to be afraid of.” He held out a finger and one of the puppets grasped it and pulled.

Eowyn laughed.

“Perhaps her Ladyship would like a puppet of her own, my Lord?” said the puppeteer.

“Would you like a dwarf, Eowyn?”

She nodded.

“I am going to take my hand out again, my Lady,” said the puppeteer, cautiously. “ _There_.” He wiggled his fingers and, this time, Eowyn grinned. Then he felt in one of his big pockets. “Yes… This might be small enough for you.” He held out a pretty little girl puppet with long yellow hair, blue button eyes, and a broad smile.

Eowyn took it from him, shyly. “Thank you.”

“Put it on like a glove, my Lady—that’s right. Now, move your fingers, like this… Yes, very good!”

He slipped his hand back into one of the dwarves and it immediately sprang to life.

“Wave to him, little lady,” said Eowyn’s father.

Eowyn made her puppet jiggle.

“Clever girl! Falemi,” he said, to one of the Guards, “give Master Puppeteer a gold coin.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” said the man, bowing low.

…

Her father carried her the rest of the way, through the fair and out into the fields beyond, where the horse traders had gathered to parade and sell their animals. Clinging his shoulder, Eowyn looked this way and that.

There was so much to see!

There were strange little men, with big feet and curly hair, leading sturdy ponies; there were rough farmers showing teams of draught horses; there were men of Rohan selling brave young war horses; and there were elegant southern noblemen putting their smooth, sleek hunters through their paces.

Eowyn spotted a beautiful little colt, with huge, bright eyes and, forgetting that she was still holding her puppet, she tugged at her daddy’s jerkin and pointed excitedly.

“You like _him_ , do you, little lady? Yes, you have a good eye for bloodstock. But,” he added, kissing her temple, “ _we_ are looking for something special today— _very_ special—ah, yes! Look over there.”

Turning, so that she could see where he was pointing, he showed her a group of dainty little mares, fine-boned and pale as milk. Eowyn had never seen horses so lovely—and their owners were just as fascinating: taller than her daddy, but slender (almost like her mummy), with smooth, fair hair and beardless faces.

“Pretty lady-man,” said Eowyn, loudly, pointing to their leader.

“Oh! I do apologise, my Lord,” said her father, with uncharacteristic embarrassment. He bowed slightly. “My daughter is used to the burly men of Rohan…”

“There is no harm done, my Lord,” said the stranger.

His voice was gentle; and when he placed his hand upon his chest and returned the bow, smiling up at Eowyn with twinkling blue eyes, and said, “I am an ‘elf’, híril nín,” she was captivated.

She reached out to him.

“And who is this?” he asked, for she was still holding her puppet.

Eowyn’s big smile faded—the dolly had no name. “Don’t know,” she said, sadly.

“The toy is new,” explained her father.

Eowyn hugged the puppet to her chest.

“Do you know what _I_ would call her, híril nín?” said the elf, kindly. “I would call her ‘melmenya’, because that means beloved—”

...

“ _Legolas!_ ” cried Eowyn, leaping to her feet as the memory flooded back. “Legolas! _Legolas!_ ”

Interrupting Gimli’s story in mid axe-swing, the elf peered around his friend’s stout frame. “Melmenya?”

“Yes.” She laughed. “ _Yes!_ ”

Legolas glanced at Eomer. The man was staring up at his sister, dumbfounded. Legolas rose from his seat and took his wife in his arms. “What is it, melmenya?”

Eowyn laughed again. “It was _you_ ,” she said. Then, still in his embrace, she came up on tiptoe and, looking over his shoulder, she smiled broadly at their guests. “It was Legolas!”

“What was me, meleth nín?” he asked, softly.

“The _elf_!”

“Sit down,”—gently, he set her back in her chair—“and tell us all about it.”

“Eomer was talking about the Yuletide Horse Fair—our father took us there when we were children—and _I_ remembered.” She described her encounter with the elf. “It was you, Lassui!”

“You were only two years old,” said Eomer, doubtfully. “You remember an elf. But you cannot possibly know that it was Legolas.”

“Yes I can!” said Eowyn. “It _was_ Legolas. I am sure of it.”

“It may well have been,” said Faramir, loyally.

Gimli grunted in agreement.

“Well, it does _sound_ like Legolas,” said Hentmirë.

But Legolas, kneeling at Eowyn’s feet, said nothing.

…

**Later**

Their friends had retired for the night.

Eowyn was still overjoyed—she found herself smiling at every little thing—but Legolas seemed restless; and Eowyn knew that, once she had fallen asleep, he would leave her, as was his custom, to find tranquility walking beneath the stars.

And, tonight, of all nights, she did not want to be parted from him. “Shall we go for a walk?” she asked.

“It is snowing, Eowyn nín,” he said.

“That will make it more fun.”

Legolas smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. “You must wrap up warm, then.”

Eowyn pulled on her fur-lined boots and slipped on her velvet mantle. “There.”

They meandered along the snow-covered walkway, under the frosted branches, past windows glowing with candlelight. “It is so beautiful tonight,” said Eowyn.

“ _You_ are beautiful, melmenya.” He brushed a snowflake from her cheek. “You look happy.”

“I _am_ happy.”

“Why?”

“Because…” She smiled. “My memory—it means that I have always known you. It means,”—she searched for the right words—“it feels as though you have always been _mine_.”

Legolas raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it.

“But it has troubled you,” said Eowyn.

“No…”

“ _Yes_. That is why I brought you out here.” They carried on walking. “Do you remember _me_ , Lassui?”

“Of course.”

Eowyn clapped her hands together.

“I had not realised that it was _you_ ,” he admitted, “but I remember the little girl with her puppet, reaching out to me. I remember it as though it were yesterday.” He drew her to the edge of the walkway, and they stood beside the carved wooden rail, gazing down upon the rest of the city. “Twenty-six years is not long, melmenya.”

“For an elf who has lived three thousand years,” said Eowyn. “I know that, Lassui. But the difference in our ages has never troubled you before. It used to upset _me_ —”

“I never thought of you as a child before,” said Legolas. “Knowing that I saw you, spoke to you, _as a child_ , feels—strange—it makes the difference _real_. Oh melmenya, I thank the Valar that you were changed!* I could not have borne it!”

“My _love_!” She grasped his hands.

“I told myself that if I tried hard enough—if I lived every moment as though it were a year, never looking to the future, never regretting what had passed—I could make it last. But, the truth is, I would have lost you so quickly—”

“But not _now_! You will not lose me now, Lassui!” Her eyes filled with tears. “Why did you never tell me this before?”

“It was not real to me before,” said Legolas, honestly.

Her heart ached for him, for she could never bear to see him unhappy, but neither could she—especially tonight—bear to have her own happiness shattered. “Must you be sad now?” Her voice quavered.

The elf turned to her in surprise. “Oh!” He drew her into his arms. “I am sorry!”

“Lord Fingolfin,” she said, “has given me a book to read—in Sindarin. It says that the love between an elf and a woman can never end well.” She hugged him. “But _we_ are different, Lassui; _we_ have been blessed. Come home with me now, my love,”—she knew that she was gambling, asking him to seek his peace of mind with her instead of his beloved trees; she knew that the stakes were high, and she prayed she would not lose—“come home with me, stay with me, and I will make you forget all those fears.”

When he said nothing, she began to tremble.

But then she felt his arms tighten around her, and his hands rub her back (for he thought that she was cold).

“I am such a lucky elf,” he whispered.

And her heart sang.

...

**Several weeks later...**

With a final glance over his shoulder to make sure that no one was watching, Legolas ducked into the clearing.

At the far side of the depression, nestling amongst the great tree roots, sat a crooked little hut fashioned from woven branches daubed with mud. Pale young leaves sprouted from its twisted door jambs and a thin curl of smoke rose from the gap in its crazily pitched roof.

Legolas approached the dark hole of its door, calling softly, “Mistress?”

“Who’s there?” came the immediate reply, in a voice that was unexpectedly sharp.

“I am Legolas, of Eryn Carantaur.”

“Hmm.” An old woman shuffled through the doorway. “Come closer. Yes, _closer_ ,”—she stared up at him with milky, sightless eyes—“yes,” she said, nodding. “What do you want?”

“I am told,” he said, “that you tell fortunes.”

“Sometimes.”

There were three pieces of tree trunk grouped around the door, and she gestured towards one of them, indicating that Legolas should take a seat. “It’s the past that troubles _you_ ,” she said, waving him away when he tried to help her sit down. “You want to change it.”

“I,”—he frowned—“yes. Yes, you are quite right. I do.”

The old woman nodded. “Ayleth,” she called—and, for the first time, Legolas became aware of a second person, standing just inside the hut—a young woman, with hair the colour of carantaur leaves—“fetch the glass.”

For a moment the younger woman disappeared from view; then she emerged, reverently carrying a ball of crystal (veined and flecked with moon- and starlight), which she placed carefully in the old woman’s hands, guiding the gnarled fingers round its smooth curves. Then she straightened up, and Legolas caught sight of her pale green eyes— _Fox’s eyes_ , he thought.

The old woman set the ball in front of him. “Look into it,” she said.

Legolas leaned forward and, peering at its polished surface, saw nothing but his own face, comically distorted.

“Look deeper,” said the woman.

Legolas leaned closer but, at that very moment, a movement of the younger woman drew his eye, and he saw her cupped hands open, and fragments of leaf and petal fall, and flames leap up, and he caught the scent of something sweet—

“Do not look at Ayleth,” said the old woman, “look into the glass.”

So Legolas leaned closer still and, feeling strangely light-headed, he gazed past his own reflection, and into the sparkling depths of the crystal ball.

…

_Laughing, Legolas ran up the broad stone steps. The men standing beside the double doors were tall and stern but he gave them his best smile and they let him pass. Inside, the Hall was dark, and smelled of smoke, and roasted meat, and of other, nastier things._

_Legolas bounced across the patterned floor, jumping from red square to red square, until he reached the platform, with its carved wooden throne, then turned—_

_And stopped._

_Someone was crying._

_Hidden in the shadows, somewhere behind the row of carved wooden pillars, someone was sobbing her heart out._

_Forgetting all about his hopping game, Legolas went to investigate._

_…_

_It was a human elleth, no older than himself. She was sitting on one of the wooden benches that lined the Great Hall, her head bowed, clutching something to her chest._

_“Hello,” said Legolas, cautiously._

_The girl looked up, staring at him with big, tearful eyes, and she was so pretty, Legolas could not help smiling. “What is wrong?”_

_She sniffed._

_Legolas hopped up on to the bench and sat beside her, legs dangling. “Why are you crying?”_

_“Mel_ wen _wyn,” she sobbed._

_Legolas frowned. “What is Melwenwyn?”_

_She held out the thing she had been hugging._

_Legolas looked at it, critically. “A dolly.” (His friend Aredhel had a dolly, but he had never seen the point of one himself)._

_“Melwenwyn is a_ puppet _,” said the girl, sniffing again._

_“Oh,” he said. Then, “What is a puppet?”_

_The girl slipped her hand under the doll's striped skirt and held her up, wiggling her fingers. The little creature waved. Legolas laughed. “She looks quite like you,” he said, reaching out and stroking the long woollen hair, “but,”—he touched a fragment of blue button on the dolly’s face—“her eye is broken—”_

_“I_ knowwwww _,” wailed the girl._

_“Oh, do not cry,” said Legolas, anxiously. He looked about him, hoping to find help. There was none. “We will ask Gwanur Nerdanel. Yes—she will know what to do. She always knows what to do.”_

_“Who—who is—Gwanur Nerdanel?”_

_“She looks after me when Ada is too busy.” Legolas jumped down from the bench. “She will be here—somewhere.” He held out his hand. “Come with me.”_

_The girl gave him the puppet. “Hold Melwenwyn,” she said, with another sniff._

_Legolas watched her roll onto her tummy and, grasping the seat, reach for the floor with her feet. “If Gwanur Nerdanel cannot fix her,” he said, kindly, “you can have my Beregond Bunny._ He _has two eyes.”_

_To his surprise, the girl wailed again._

_…_

_They found the elleth sitting on the stone terrace, mending a tear in Legolas’ second-best tunic. She looked closely at the dolly’s face. “Of course I can, Little Prince,” she said, opening her work basket and searching through her collection of buttons. “Blue. Let me see… Well, I have this one. Or this.”_

_Legolas glanced at the girl. She shook her head. “Those do not match,” he said._

_“I do not have an exact match, Little Prince, nor two blue buttons the same,” said Nerdanel, “but… I do have two_ brown _buttons.”_

_The girl shook her head._

_“What about…” Legolas pointed to the line of small, silver-grey buttons decorating the wide cuff of his tunic. “You could use two of those.”_

_“That would spoil your tunic, Little Prince!”_

_“No, not if you take one off each sleeve—then it will not show.” He turned to the girl. “Would you like those?”_

_She nodded._

_Legolas smiled up at Gwanur Nerdanel._

_The elleth shook her head indulgently. “You and the Little Princess had better go and play somewhere else for a while,” she said, taking up her scissors._

_…_

_“When you are older,” said Legolas, hopping along the terrace, “I will come back and teach you how to use a bow.”_

_The girl followed him. “Why?”_

_Legolas stopped, and turned, and the girl—close behind and intent on stepping on the right stones—head-butted his chest. “Oooof!” He threw his arms around her, to steady them both. “Because then,” he said, “you will always be safe.”_

_“_ I _have a sword,” she said, “and a staff. So_ I _will teach_ you _as well.”_

_…_

_“There,” said Gwanur Nerdanel, handing over the puppet. “All done.”_

_The girl looked at the dolly’s face. The two silver-grey buttons were just the right size, and the elleth had embroidered a fringe of dark lashes above each one. “Thank you,” she mumbled, shyly. She turned to Legolas, her own face transformed by a beautiful smile._

_Legolas smiled back._

_Suddenly, she leaned towards him, and kissed his cheek._

_Then she skipped away, up the stone steps and through the double doors, waving the puppet at the silent door-keepers as she went._

_Legolas rubbed his face. “When you are older,” he called after her, “I will come back, and_ I _will kiss_ you _.”_

…

“Ah!” Legolas’ head jerked back.

“Did you see what you wanted?” asked the old woman.

The elf said nothing for a long while, but sat, rubbing his temples and breathing raggedly. Then, slowly, he straightened up, and smiled broadly, and, clasping both hands to his chest, he replied, “Yes, Mistress. It was _exactly_ what I wanted.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In a previous story, _Misrule in Mirkwood_ , the Valar granted Eowyn a sort of immortality.


End file.
